The Epic of Arabel
by jwcirilo
Summary: The epic tale of the Daughter of the Niben; The Last Dragonborn to walk the mortal plane, and her struggle with destiny, acceptance, and death.


"Daughter of the Niben"

Off the shores of the Nibenay River, well within the shallows, was born a baby girl. Her mother, a poor Nibenese woman, had been cursed a lifetime with infertility. The young lady's husband, a hardy Nord miner from Bruma, had prayed to Mara, bequeathing unto Her all that he was willing to sacrifice, his own life included, if it meant he could give his wife a child.

They birthed their daughter just short of nine months later, and named her Arabel; the fruit of their prayers.

Like all those who lived and died in the valley, Arabel was to be a fisher or alchemist. Her fate was decided by convenience, being too poor to flood north in search of taller walls for protection and greater wealth of opportunity. Her parents would not let her wander far or ever alone, and gave her the coddled protection for most of her young life.

When the Aldmeri Dominion sent their ships from Topal Bay, however, they were forced to board a carriage and flee their own homeland, watching in the distance as the Imperial City was sacked and burned behind them.

As refugees, their little family took to the Jerall mountains just at the dawn of winter. Many died on the journey upwards, and young Arabel, grew too ill to continue to the safety of Bruma. At camp, she was expected to pass in the night. But just as all great heroes must survive to face and fight the onslaught of war, so had to the young daughter of the Niben.

An old man approached the couple, dressed in an old cloak, his face covered by long wiry hair, and a thick beard. Clutched in his grip was a knotted staff, twisted from the bark of a canticle tree, and at its peak, grasped by the intertwine of branches, a soul gem glowing faintly in the grey of winter. He offered them not peace, or healing, or hope for their daughters life, but only his hand to lift up from off the ground. And in a dazzling display of light that did soak the mountain pass, blinding the travelers who so bravely climbed to their salvation, Arabel, her mother and father, were whisked away out of existence until the time had come that she was needed.

All legends of the beginning of time and existence speak of two entities who appeared by the will of the universe together in the void and soon would find themselves in conflict. Though the details vary between cultures and religions, one thing remains constant between the people's of Nirn; the world left here in Mundus, the mortal plane; the dichotomy remains constant. A division between opposing ideals which gave life to the world we dissect. Existence, and nothingness; order and chaos; light and dark.

Through the ages of man and mer, legends came tumbling down. Myths of gods, and demigods. False prophets and champions of the realm of mortals. Divine wrath, conflict and resolution. But so often, the credulity of these stories are lost to time. Either burned away by the natural erosion that all things are subject to, or destroyed through times of great hardship and war; beaten back from preservation in the haste of ascension. All things have their ending, doomed to be forgotten. Wiped away like the blood that stains the blades of history; the same swords that came and shaped the course of time.

In all this blood, and all this conflict, millennia would come and pass. Men, mer, and beast alike would fight and die. Borders would be drawn, fortresses razed and crude armor, bent by hammer and forge would lay in the ground, covering the bones of great warriors. Until, one day, there came a need for another champion. One who would rise up above the plain and mortal to usher dawn over the horizon. See that the aetherial light that Magnus left in his hurry would continue to cast over the hills over the mountains and through the trees.

For Arabel, the verses that minstrils and bards would soon be singing in every tavern were just about to be weaved into existence.

South of Falkreath rode the white-bearded man, his flowing mane trailing his backside. He was dressed only in hooded robes, equally as unkempt, and his notched and twisted scepter in his left hand at the ready.

By his side, walked an Orcish soldier, come from the mountains far behind them, traveling together out of loyalty, but not kinship.

"This far will do," the orc snarled.

"I will say when we are far enough," the old man returned crassly, a pipe dangling from his teeth. "But, yes, this far will do."

He dismounted, and scurried quickly to the back of his steed where young Arabel laid out in ragged robes.

"My my my, isn't she beautiful?" The old man asked.

"I wouldn't know," the orc snorted. "Perhaps she is for her kind. Except for that eye."

The old man lifted each eyelid to inspect each one underneath. Her right shimmered a pale blue in the sunlight pouring through the canopy overhead, but the left was opaque- a cataract formed a gray veil over what once was such delicate features.

"Perhaps," the old man began, "an oversight on my part."

"Who was she, if I may ask?"

"No one yet," the old man said in a sing-song fashion. "Once upon a time, The Daughter of the Niben. Product of prayer and happenstance."

"And now?"

"That is entirely up to her to decide," the old man continued. "I have done my job. It is not our place to dictate the lives of great heroes, only to nudge them in the right direction."

The old man caressed the young woman's cheek, and ran his fingers down the warpaint that coated the outline of her ruined eye. Her father had bestowed this on her to protect her. The sigil was one stripe upwards towards her scalp, and two just below the lower eyelid; the mark of a warrior.

"A stroke of destiny," he continued.

"Meaning?" The orc asked impatiently.

"You will know someday, my old companion."

Growing ever impatient, the orc started to growl and grit his teeth. "You are arrogantly vague," he said. "Testing my patience is not a wise decision."

"Arabel" the old man whispered softly to her. "If only you knew of your importance."

The orc was growing anxious with every second they spent over her still body in the woods. Troubled times had befallen the world, and even more troubled were the days that had befallen Skyrim.

"Fear not," the old man said, noticing the orc clutching firmly on his axe. "You won't need that. Our destiny is not to die in these woods with her. Not today."

The orc eased his tension, but kept a weathered eye all around the dense thicket of trees and shrubbery that lined the forest floor.

"Either way, it's time for us to go," he snapped.

"And so it is," the old man replied. "She will awaken soon, and when she does, she will have no knowledge of the years behind her, only the memories I've left instilled in her mind to keep her warm and unstartled in the darkest nights. Only when she returns to these forests unbound, and ready, will she understand the significance of her presence, and her place in the world."

"And what of ours?" The orc asked as they marched away back down the road away from her.

"I cannot say for us," the old man replied. "It is my sole wish to remain ignorant of my own prophecy, but hers has been written many times before. She will meet countless friends, allies, and enemies; play roles in changing the face of darkness and light, knowledge, and strength, but that is her road to walk. Our uncertain path lies ahead for us to discover."

"Just as well, I was beginning to grow tired of your cryptic nature," the orc returned. "Our debt is settled then. Perhaps I will see you someday, at the end. But if you've nothing more to tell me, I will bid you goodbye." The orc bent his knee, and bowed to the old man. A courtesy rarely demonstrated among his people save for the finest warriors. "Farewell old man. I hope I never bare the misfortune of owing my life to you again."

"Oh, I will be seeing you again soon," the old man smiled back at him. "For this is only the beginning."

He looked back at Arabel's body once more, laying limp across the forest floor.

"_This is always how it begins."_


End file.
